The Red Favour
by greymantledlady
Summary: 'You know, I'm going to be fighting them tomorrow,' Arthur says, 'and believe me, they will pay dearly for this.' He touches Merlin's sore shoulder, brief and gentle. 'As your champion, Merlin, it's only fitting that I should wear your token, don't you think? ' He looks at Merlin, softly smiling, teasing, and Merlin's cheeks are burning like fire and he can't hold Arthur's gaze.
_Disclaimer: I don't own Merlin._

 _Warnings: Spoilers for 3x04 'Gwaine'._

* * *

' _I stepped in to protect Merlin.'_

' _Gwaine is a good man. He deserves clemency.'_

' _You are banished from Camelot. If you ever return, you will pay for it with your life. You have until dawn to leave the city.'_

* * *

Merlin slips towards the door, a little behind Gaius, feeling wobbly and shaky and horrible inside. It's his fault, his fault that Gwaine is banished, because if he hadn't been caught spying Gwaine would never have come to rescue him, and been caught. And it's all for nothing, really, because he's supposed to go back to the false knights tomorrow morning, and they'll _kill_ him if he does that.

Perhaps he could ask Arthur for help - perhaps Arthur would - would understand, and let Merlin not go, even if he didn't believe that Sir Oswald and Sir Ethan were imposters...

Merlin's just thinking that he'll _have_ to ask Arthur, when he feels a warm strong hand at the back of his neck and a voice says in his ear, 'Come with me, Merlin.' _Arthur's_ voice.

Arthur's hand stays at his neck, firm and oddly steadying, guiding him out of the throne room and up the back way towards Arthur's chambers. Merlin glances at Arthur's face and sees a tight jawline, lips pressed together, eyebrows very straight and low. Whatever it is, Arthur is not happy, and Merlin wonders wearily if it's with him. He hopes it isn't, because he's tired and still feeling sick and shivery with fear inside, remembering knives being thrown within inches of his face and a sharp enchanted sword trying to skewer him. If Arthur shouts at him as well, he might – might cry, or something stupid like that.

Arthur pushes him into the room, but not roughly, which is a good sign. Then he closes the door behind them, steers Merlin across the room, and pulls out a chair and pushes him gently down into it.

'What did they do to you?' he says grimly. And Merlin looks up at Arthur's face and realises with an odd warm jolt that Arthur's not angry with him, he's _worried,_ because he thinks that Merlin might be hurt, and he cares.

'Oh!' he says, and then words trip over one another in trying to reassure Arthur. 'I'm fine, don't worry, Gwaine got there just in time – just a few bruises, it's all right.'

But Arthur's face goes darker, and he says dangerously, ' _Just in time?_ Good God, Merlin, just tell me what they were doing. Now.'

Merlin swallows. 'They – uh, threw knives at me,' he says quietly, 'and then the big one – Oswald – he ran at me with a sword, and I ducked and he came again and then Gwaine came and fought him.'

'Anything else?' Arthur's nostrils are flaring slightly.

'Not – not really. Just that they threw me around a bit before they got to the knives. That's all.'

Arthur's face is almost frightening when he says, very softly, 'Threw you around? Hence the bruises, I suppose. Show me.'

Merlin hesitates, and then pulls his jacket and shirt away from his shoulder. 'Shirt off,' says Arthur, and it's obvious that nothing's going to satisfy him but to see for himself that Merlin's not hurt. Merlin sighs and pulls off his jacket, unties his scarf, then wriggles out of the shirt, standing up and spreading his arms for inspection.

'Really, see, it's nothing,' he says, as Arthur takes his arm and turns him to see his back. 'And it's cold, can I put my shirt back on?'

'Merlin,' Arthur says tightly, 'you have a bruise the size of a dinner plate on your shoulder. That's not _nothing_.' And Merlin feels fingers on his skin, rather gentle fingers, tracing around the part that he can't see very well but is aching the worst. He shivers, and says nothing.

'You're not going back to them – you know that, of course,' Arthur says quietly.

He places his hands, briefly, on Merlin's shoulders, warm and steady, and then turns him around. 'Merlin – I'm sorry. If I'd known – I never thought that _Oswald_ of all people would be like this. I suppose this is why you've been late and tired every time I see you since they've arrived.'

Merlin flashes him a quick grin, just to show Arthur he's all right, really. 'Arthur,' he says quickly, but Arthur's still speaking.

'Take it to Gaius,' Arthur says. 'Get some ointment or something to stop it aching.' And he grabs Merlin's shirt and makes a gesture that clearly indicates for Merlin to raise his arms.

'I can put my own shirt on!' Merlin squeaks, rather shocked.

Arthur just sighs deeply and rolls his eyes. 'Honestly, Merlin. It's not as though you don't do the same for me every morning.'

'That's - that's different!'

'Arms. Up - now,' Arthur says, and there's no denying him when he's in this mood, so Merlin puts his arms up meekly to be clothed. He's blushing, for some reason; he can feel heat spreading from his cheeks down his neck.

Arthur puts his shirt on, and it feels strange, having someone so close to your body, dressing you, their fingertips brushing your arms and shoulders and back as they pull your shirt gently down. Arthur's surprisingly good at it, making sure he doesn't jar Merlin's shoulder or bump his bruised skin, and there's an odd shivery feeling in Merlin's stomach. That's probably just because he's dead tired and it's cold and Arthur's fingers tickle a little bit, though.

'There,' Arthur says triumphantly, as though he's won the melee already, and he smiles heartstoppingly at Merlin and ruffles his hair. Then he reaches for Merlin's neckscarf, makes to tie it around his neck again–

And stops, and looks measuringly down at it, and laughs. 'You know, I'm going to be fighting them tomorrow,' he says, 'and believe me, they will pay dearly for this.' He touches Merlin's sore shoulder, brief and gentle. 'As your champion, Merlin, it's only fitting that I should wear your token, don't you think?'

Oh.

 _Oh._

Merlin's cheeks are burning like fire, and he can't hold Arthur's gaze for more than a moment, but has to keep glancing away. 'I – what?' he squeaks, 'n-no!'

Arthur doesn't press it. He only looks at Merlin, softly smiling, teasing, his eyes like _that_ , and offers the scarf back.

Merlin almost snatches it, gabbling something about seeing Gwaine off as he fumbles for his jacket, and flees.

He realises on the way back to Gaius's chambers that Arthur had not even asked if Merlin had been doing anything wrong, only if they had hurt him.

* * *

Merlin's laying out Arthur's chain shirt and armour on the table, and he has a headache.

Why, _why,_ must Arthur go and say odd scary stomach-flipping things like that, joking not-joking? Merlin touches the scarf at his neck self-consciously. It's the red one this morning, soft and worn out, and if Arthur really, _really_ wanted it, he could rip off a long thin strip up one side, to go round Arthur's arm.

But only if Arthur asks again, of course, and he probably won't, it was probably a stupid prattish Arthur joke that meant nothing, and Merlin hates himself a little bit for thinking so much about it.

He can't help glancing at Arthur every so often, though, and sometimes it does almost seem as though Arthur's about to say something. But then the King comes in, with his stupid sword and his stupid expectations that make Arthur look like a kicked puppy; and Merlin forgets everything but the overwhelming urge to go to Arthur and comfort him. To show Arthur that _he,_ at least, believes in him.

And he does, and Arthur smiles again; but he does not mention tokens or favours.

* * *

In fact, Arthur waits until they're in the tent, just before the melee begins, and Merlin's just finishing strapping on the armoured plates with deft fingers. There's a comfortable contented silence between them.

And Arthur looks half over his shoulder, as Merlin's standing there, and breaks the silence. 'So, Merlin,' he says in a low soft voice that jolts straight to somewhere at the bottom of Merlin's stomach. 'What about that token?'

Merlin gapes and stutters, his heart giving a great thud. 'I – ah – well – '

'Merlin. I'm fairly certain that you said exactly that last time, or at least some similar variation on garbled mumbling.'

Merlin snaps his mouth shut. And then – then, he finds his fingers going to the knot of his scarf, trembling; and he glances up at Arthur, very quickly, his face hot, as his fingers work it free. And Arthur is grinning triumphantly, _proudly_ , as though he's won the five kingdoms and everything in them.

'Just – just a strip of it,' Merlin says huskily, 'just a little bit, Arthur – ' and his hands are a bit wobbly, but he manages to tear a long strip off the frayed edge, just as he had planned in his mind. Arthur takes a deep breath in, almost as though he's nervous too, and turns and offers his armoured arm to Merlin.

Merlin knows how this works, and he shyly loops the strip around Arthur's arm and knots it.

And then looks at it, and panics.

'Arthur – _Arthur,_ ' he says desperately. 'It looks like – it's so obvious– Everyone will know! And they'll think – they'll wonder! And –'

Arthur's hand comes down over Merlin's fingers, pressing them against the token and Arthur's arm, firm and reassuring. 'Shh,' he says, 'calm down. They'll just think it's the Camelot colours.' He pauses, and casts his eyes around, falling on a torn edge of the red-and-gold tent lining. 'Look.'

He reaches up, and picks at the fibres until he has a thin bit of yellow fabric. 'See, I'll tie this on too. Red and gold for Camelot. All right?' And then he smiles at Merlin, so bright and golden-haired and beautiful that Merlin has to smile back; and goes out wearing Merlin's favour into the melee.

* * *

 _Afterwards:_

Arthur's quiet, in those few moments that Merlin's undoing his armour. Merlin's frantic, pleading: 'Please, Arthur! You have to speak to him! He'll have Gwaine executed if you don't! You will, won't you? Arthur?'

'Merlin, will you calm down? Of course I'm going to speak to my father. Just calm down, all right?' He reaches out and takes Merlin's wrist, circling it with strong fingers and shaking it slightly, comfortingly.

Merlin gulps and nods. His fingers are going for the knotted token, trembling a little but working the knot free and crumpling it up in his hand to take and throw away.

But Arthur turns and shoots out his arm again. 'Stop,' he says quickly, and – is Arthur _blushing?_ He closes his hand around Merlin's, peeling his fingers away from the little strip of cloth. 'I want that.'

Merlin looks at him wide-eyed, his mouth opening and closing. 'Wha – why?' he manages to get out.

Arthur's cheeks are still a bit pink. But he grins rakishly at Merlin, and rolls the ragged red scrap up between his fingers, carefully, as though it's a prize to be kept.

'For luck,' he says in that velvet-soft voice, and meets Merlin's eyes for a long warm moment.

* * *

Arthur never does throw the favour away, after that; he says that it's his lucky token. And Merlin blushes every time he sees it, and Arthur seems to enjoy that overly much, which just proves he's a royal prat.

Secretly, though, Merlin rather likes the thought of Arthur carrying his token around wherever he goes. For luck, and fair weather, and good fortune, a charm to ward away hurt and keep Arthur safe.

(Not that he'd tell Arthur that.)

* * *

 _I will be posting a picspam up on AO3 and LiveJournal in the next day or so, showing that Arthur really does wear Merlin's favour in the melee. :) If you like that kind of thing, have a look! My name is the same on both sites._

 _I hope you enjoyed this; please leave a review and let me know what you thought! :)_


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